


FWIW Companion Piece #2: Amortentia

by CescaLR



Series: For What It's Worth & Companion Pieces. [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Amortentia, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, FWIW is entirely intended to be read first, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Minor Lavender Brown/Parvati Patil, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, POV Harry Potter, Potions Class (Harry Potter), Pre-Harry Potter/Ron Weasley - Freeform, in FWIW continuity, therfore quite divergent in some aspects so... please read FWIW first, this is mostly just pre-slash and i guess you could read it without FWIW but like... please don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27444598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Punch-drunk.Or: The fumes of Amortentia can spill your own secrets to yourself.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Series: For What It's Worth & Companion Pieces. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875412
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	FWIW Companion Piece #2: Amortentia

**Author's Note:**

> it's not even mentioned but fyi background Hermione/Viktor + if you insist on not reading FWIW:
> 
> \- Harry and Ron went gallivanting around muggle london for some of the summer before fifth year + mostly just hung around each other the summer after when they could
> 
> \- Ron and Ginny can tell when something is Familiar TM aka when something is probably a horcrux, thanks Grimmauld Place
> 
> \- Grimmauld Place's magic left a lasting impact on it's residents, no I will not explain further please read FWIW
> 
> \- please read FWIW
> 
> \- ^^^
> 
> ok good that's all continue thank you for giving my fics a chance hon it means a lot

> Potions is - very different. Despite it taking place in the same classroom, in the same dungeons, the whole feel of it has changed drastically. It's warmer, in lighting, and brighter in atmosphere, jovial and friendly, oranges and browns and golds instead of blacks and cold blues and deep, dark greens.

It helps, Harry thinks, that the classes have been merged this year, thanks to the fewer students NEWTs brings around. A few Slytherins, a couple Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and a handful of Gryffindors. With the Slytherins on the other side of the room, Harry could almost pretend they weren’t even present, if it weren’t for the eye he was keeping on Malfoy and his cronies, who were not up to their usual lot of making snide, jeering remarks behind Snape’s ever unwatchful back – rather, Harry thinks, they look more… focused, than usual. They’re not ignoring the lesson to pester the class. It’s odd.

Slughorn stands, his great walrus moustache curving above his beaming mouth, as he greets Harry. "Ah, Harry, my boy! So, you did decide to join Potions, then?" He says, decidedly pleased. Harry manages a tight smile and a short nod in response, Dumbledore’s words about _letting him collect you_ ringing in his ears. Why, he hasn’t revealed yet, but Harry needs – supposedly for the sake of the entire wizarding world – to be in Slughorn’s good graces

Given his prowess, or lack thereof, with potions – that might be harder than he would have liked. Harry grimaces, but keeps that contained in his own head. It’s a mental grimace. He can’t afford to look _completely_ unenthusiastic. "Very good! Ah, and Mr Weasley." He turns his smile in Ron's direction. "Two of Hogwarts' very own heroes, right here in my classroom!"

A beat. Then: "What?" Ron says. He looks utterly bewildered, like he hasn’t been standing right beside Harry throughout the last six years or so. Really, Harry’s wondering why Slughorn hadn’t mentioned Hermione, who’d been with them the whole time too…

"Dear boy, you have an award for services to the school, do you not?" Slughorn chuckles.

Ah. That would do it. An _award._ Harry rolls his eyes mentally, but he’s grinning, because it’s nice to see Ron’s achievements recognised. "Why, the last time that was awarded... well, it got in the newspaper! A very rare occurrence, that. I'm surprised that didn't happen this time, when was it, again?"

"1992, Professor," Hermione pipes up, tone hesitant. Harry doesn’t like her expression, overmuch. It’s _surprise._ And there’s something in her eyes – like she’d half-forgotten it even happened.

Though, to be fair, she _had_ been unconscious.

"When the Chamber was opened." Hermione adds.

Slughorn's smile twitches, then forcefully brightens. "Much like the last time, then," He says, and then clears his throat. "Though I think you boys will find you're both rather more _impressive_ than the last person to win that award - why you were twelve at the time! Not very often that a twelve-year-old saves the day, you know." He looks almost chuffed on their behalf, proud he has students with such accolades. He’s a collector, Harry reminds himself. Likes to know people. Have his fingers in all the pies possible, connections in all places high on the food chain. Guarantee himself a cushy life.

Ron looks bewildered, still, his ears tinged the faintest pink, hard to see past his hair, which hangs just short of his earlobes. "How'd'you find out?" Ron asks.

"Oh, I take a stroll through the Trophy Room occasionally," Slughorn says, cheerfully. "Reminds me of the students I've taught over the years... you know, that sort of thing. I happened upon a cabinet near the front - they're arranged by year, you see - and there both of you were! Front and centre in that year's display."

Ron's blinking, part and parcel of how he showcases his bewilderment, increases in rapidity.

"Huh." Harry grimaces, thinking of how many of the stares he’s gotten over the years might be because of that award. "Didn't know that."

Slughorn looks between them; at Ron's confusion, and Harry's discomfort. "Come now, boys, you should be proud of your achievements!" He says. Someone coughs. Harry glances around the classroom; looks like everyone's arrived - and at that realisation, his grimace deepens. Ron’s ears redden further, his slightly-faded freckles disappearing under an embarrassed flush. Harry directed his eyes over to the front of the classroom. Because that’s where he should be looking. Because you don’t _stare_ at people. That’s one of those things that falls under ‘not Dursley-specific’ things that the Dursleys got mad about. And, plus, it _was_ just weird to stare at people. Harry didn’t like being stared at himself – the whole experience was uncomfortable. Staring or stared at, you couldn’t win. Not that he _was_ staring. Because you don’t stare at your best mate. Not how – how Ron used to stare at Hermione. Still does, sometimes. And – and not how Parvati can freely keep her eyes trained on Lavender however long she likes, because Lavender doesn’t mind that sort of thing. And because they’re _girls._ Parvati can stare at Lavender. Dean stopped looking Seamus in the eye when they were twelve, and hasn’t stopped vaguely gazing over his shoulder during long conversations since, eyes darting about as if uncertain where to settle. It looked sort of how Harry felt, now, dwelling on the whole thing. _Antsy._ Uncertain. But that wasn’t the point, because the point was -

"Ah. Yes, has everyone arrived? Good." Slughorn smiles.

That. The point was class. And Harry was focusing on this lesson, because for whatever reason Dumbledore will give him eventually, he needs to be in Slughorn’s good graces.

"Now, everyone get out your books and set up your cauldrons - if you've no books, and I know a couple of you don't, there are a few in the cupboard over there," He points towards a cabinet in the back corner of the room. "I found a few spares; some of them might be older editions, so compare and contrast with your neighbours if something doesn't seem right. I shall hand them out today, but not to worry if you forget next lesson - just borrow a book from the cupboard." Slughorn strides over to a corner cupboard and starts rummaging.

Ron, Harry and Hermione are sharing a table with Ernie MacMillan. He’s alright, Harry supposes. Certainly not the worst person they could have gotten saddled with – not the worst _hufflepuff,_ given Zacharias Smith exists.

"Good to see you, Harry," Ernie says, pompus as ever, yet still genuine in tone. He holds out his hand to shake, which Harry does, bemused, before he turns to Ron. "You too, Ron, Hermione," And he shakes both of their hands in turn.

"Right," Ron says, equally bemused. "You too, Ernie." Hermione gives him a friendly little smile, distracted eyes inspecting the cauldron nearest to their group.

The table they are stood at is situated next to a bright gold cauldron, from eminates this… aroma - something _familiar_ – soft and comforting and sweet but, not _sweet_ exactly just – kind of like the Burrow, he thinks, warm and cozy, a reminder of short summer nights under a thin blanket on the cot in Ron’s room, long winter evenings playing chess or reading comics or just talking until the horizon grows light and the roosters start crowing, and there’s something like – like fresh air, going flying in the summer and walking around London and playing quidditch matches in the nipping cold of a fall breeze – and there’s treacle tart, sticky, cloying, enticing – and and – god but he feels a little drunk it’s – well it’s not really – it’s lighter than that, it's not got the same kick as firewhisky - Harry feels like he's halfway towards… something comforting in a kinder way, soft and floaty, like flying on a cloud of contentment, and his eyes skate over the others at the table (Ernie who’s looking through his potions book and Hermione who’s eyes are a little distant, a small smile playing on her face) to catch on Ron’s, which are a little distant, too, pupils drunk-dilated, and Harry grins at him, because he can’t help it. Ron grins back, face flushed warm, and Harry notes, not for the first time, quietly, and to the side, something he doesn’t have to wholly acknowledge – that his eyes are very, _very_ blue. All the shades at the yule ball in their fourth year, the colours Petunia snappily talked him through when telling him to lay out the flower bed a certain way – Harry can’t pick any one of them to describe it. Blue doesn’t sit right, even though Harry would easily say that Hermione’s are brown or Hagrid’s are black. _Blue_ just doesn’t seem to encompass all the nuance. There’s more than just that. It’s like ice, but warmer, but what he means is – the other colours reflected within. Ron’s eyes seem to absorb the light that surrounds him; right now, they contain a sort of golden sheen. Refractive, or reflective, or whatever. Harry takes in a slow breath, through his nose, the potions fumes wafting over him. He thinks he can separate out other things from within – but he doesn’t want to unpack it. Harry is not inherently contemplative, as a person. And this vaguely drunken high, from the potion fumes, has already made him contemplate _enough,_ thank you very much. 

Slughorn returns at that moment from his trip to retrieve supplies, emerging with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gives to Harry and Ron, along with two sets of tarnished scales. "Here you go, boys," He says, cheerfully. "Now then," Slughorn continues, as he returns to the front of the class and leans back on his heels, hooking his thumbs onto his suspenders. "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you'll to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?"

The professor indicates the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Ron tilted his head at it. Ernie was frowning. Harry, himself, had no clue whatsoever, but as predictably as always:

Hermione's well-practised hand hits the air before anybody else's, and so Slughorn picks her to answer.

"It's Veritaserum; a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," She says.

"Very good, very good!" Slughorn nods, happily. "Now," he says, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "This one here is pretty well known... Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can -?"

Hermione's hand, once again, rises into the air - Slughorn doesn't pick her before she speaks, interrupting his question.

"it's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she says, quickly. Harry’s lips quirk up in amusement. After brewing it, Harry’s sure it would be hard _not_ to know what potion it was.

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here... yes, my dear?" says Slughorn, with an interested gleam in his eyes, as Hermione's hand shoots upwards into the air again. "It's Amortentia!" Hermione practically shouts, smiling - very pleased with herself and Slughorn's clear praise.

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask," He says looking mightily impressed, but Harry can see – in the tilt of his brows, and the glint of his eyes – that this is a form of test, "But I assume you know what it does?"

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world!" Hermione is outright grinning now. Validation, Harry guesses.

'Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," Hermione agrees enthusiastically, extrapolating, "And it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and -" She smiles awkwardly, "Well - something else very nice, you know." There's a blush decorating her cheeks. Harry flips through the book he was given, frowning in vague annoyance at the sheer _amount_ of annotations the previous owner(s) had covered it in, but found what he was looking for.

He blinks, and stalls for a moment, feeling the back of his neck warm awkwardly.

_Attracts consumption by enticing smell. Reminders of attraction. Romantic. ~~Home~~. Etc. e.g. mown grass – nice smell – ~~comforting activity~~ – spend time with ~~best friend~~ ~~love~~ someone important outside a lot._

'May I ask your name, my dear?" Slughorn requests, ignoring her embarrassment, delighted interest clear in his features. "Hermione Granger, Professor," Hermione replies.

"Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Pioneers?"

"No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

In the back of the class, Zabini and Malfoy snigger to themselves. Harry presses his lips together and glares at the back of their heads.

"Oho!” Harry looks back at the Professor. “'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," Harry's grinning. Ron's grinning, too; Malfoy is looking rather put-out, in a shocked way – it’s quite vindicating. Sucking up doesn’t work any wonders if you yourself are just generally shite, Harry directs at him, insulting the ferret mentally.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," Slughorn says, genially. Hermione beams widely, nudges Harry and mouths 'thank you', as Slughorn carries on with the lesson:

"Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room - oh yes," he says, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom are caught out smirking dangerously. Harry watches them with deep suspicion. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love..."

Harry grimaces, glancing at the cauldron. And, hell, _maybe_ the notes are faulty. What, exactly, is romantically attractive about the Burrow? It’s a building. And it’s not like it’s a building that smells _amazing_ or anything – it’s a _farm._ Not known for smelling like sunshine and rainbows, those. Though the burrow does mostly smell of fresh cooking, something floral that Molly sprays in the living room, and the warm aroma of burning wood, from the fire. It’s mostly that it’s not like what it reminded him of most – Ron’s room – smells any good at all. It just smells like a bedroom. It was just _some guy – or girl –_ who wrote those notes. What ‘attracts you’, as Hermione said, could just be… things you find comforting. And Harry finds the burrow comforting. And it’s not like he smelt something – look, a hint of firewhisky and the distinctive sharp, clean, natural scent of the shampoo – not that wizards call it that, but it’s still shampoo – that Ron _might_ use and _frankly_ it’s not like Harry doesn’t _also_ use it so it means _nothing –_

"And now, it is time for us to start work." Slughorn walks back to the front of the classroom. Harry wonders how he could have thought about so many things in such a short period of time. As he's walking, Ernie pipes up. "Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," he says, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. Within the cauldron, the potion is lively, splashing about merrily but never spilling past the rim, despite the large globs of the substance that leap above its surface - those only dive right back in, a performative arc, like a dolphin at a show.

"Oho," Slughorn says, turning dramatically, having clearly waited until someone pointed it out, a grin plastered on his round face. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he turns again, this time to look directly at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp. "That you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck," Hermione says, "It makes you impossibly lucky - on the day you take it, nothing can go wrong, but at too high a dosage -" Hermione hesitates. "Well, it's very toxic. Small doses you don't notice, but too much and it can kill you."

Harry notes Malfoy sitting up, properly, in his chair, eyes glued to the cauldron at the front of the class. "Splendid, take another ten points for Gryffindor. You are quite correct; it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," Slughorn extrapolates. "Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed... at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" Terry Boot asks, eagerly, halfway out of his seat in the back of the classroom, straining to get a good look.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," Slughorn explains. "Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally... "

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" asked Michael Corner with great interest.

"Twice in my life," The professor admits. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days." He smiles to himself at the memories.

"And that," Slughorn continues, "Is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson. One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," Slughorn tells them, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all.

A prize? Harry could do with some luck, he thinks wryly, but he’s certainly not good enough at potions to win the vial. He looks around at the other students, who seem eager and invested in what Slughorn has to say next.

"Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt."

The room is so quiet for a moment that everything in it seems louder; the bubbling of the potions, and the hissing, and the spitting, the breathing of the students, the scuffing of shoes on the floor, the creaking of wooden chairs...

"Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!

"So," Slughorn says, "how are you to win fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

* * *

"And time's... up!" Slughorn calls, turning over a sand timer. "Stop stirring, please!"

Harry feels pleased, grateful for the instructions the book had come with. Ron looks a little disgruntled, his potion the right colour but entirely the wrong consistency. Hermione’s potion, near perfect, is a tad watery and a couple shades off the correct colour. Harry’s, however…

Slughorn arrives at their table; Ron's cauldron is the first he looks into. He smiles ruefully at the congealed substance in Ron's cauldron. Ron winces, and Harry shrugs at him sympathetically. The professor passes over Ernie's navy concoction. To Hermione's potion he gives an approving nod.

He stops at Harry's, expression changing dramatically, delight taking over his features.

"The clear winner!" Slughorn shouts out to the class. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are - one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"

Harry smiles at the mention of his mother, then grins after catching the furious expressions visibly spreading over the faces of Malfoy and his cronies.

Though, looking a little closer - Malfoy looks... disappointed. Frustrated? He's not just angry. There's something else going on there.

Still - what's more important is Hermione's reaction; her glare is frosty, and Harry feels the triumph in his veins diminishing under her ire, annoyed frustration bubbling up in it’s place. For Merlin’s sake, what was so bloody wrong with him following better, _more correct_ instructions? Especially if they net results like _that._

Everyone starts packing up – Harry takes great care when handling his new textbook. Ron tidies up quickly, but they're still the last three left in the room - Ernie says goodbye, Ron returning the sentiment absently, gaze locked onto the other two occupants of the table, though less so Harry, and more so Hermione, for obvious, dark-glare related reasons.

"So," Ron says, leaning against the table, turning his attention to Harry, inquisitive, impressed. Harry feels the triumph bubbling up again. "How'd you do it?"

"He cheated," Hermione says, furiously. Once again, any feeling of victory vanishes with the wind. "Didn't you, Harry?"

"I used the instructions in the book," Harry says, internally aggravated, tone neutral. "Just, not the ones the author wrote." He opens it to the page of the recipe's instructions, and pushes it towards Ron, because he's less likely to tear it to pieces, and Hermione had refused to look at it when he’d offered earlier, and Harry _is_ just a little bit petty.

Ron squints. "Blimey," he says. "I mean, I get annotating, but couldn't they have just got a notebook or something?"

Harry snorts. "If they did that," He says, "I wouldn't have the help today."

Ron inclines his head. He flips through the book, back to front.

"This book is property of the Half-Blood Prince?" Ron reads out, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

"Huh?" Harry says, looking away from Hermione, with whom he'd been arguing about the classification of cheating versus _additional sources_.

"Well there you go," Hermione says. " _’The Half-Blood Prince’."_ She turns to Harry. "Nobody who calls themselves that would mean well, would they?" She glances between them. "I mean - You-Know-Who did something similar. It could even be his - half-blood, 'prince' and 'lord' are both lofty titles -"

"Don't be stupid," Harry says. Tom had hated his muggle heritage, he’d said as much – whoever wrote this was… either defiant or proud or thought they were being clever, but it’s certainly not a move Voldemort would make. "It's not his writing, anyway, I'd recognise it. Hell, if you're that worried, ask Ginny."

"Don't ask Ginny," Ron warns. Hermione shuts her mouth very quickly. "Of course not," She assures, and Harry doesn’t believe she won’t for one second. "Just - could I?" She takes out her wand, clearly not asking permission, more forgiveness. "Specialis Revelio!" She enunciates clearly, and nothing at all happens.

"Well, there you go," Harry echoes, out of annoyance. "Now, do you want to wait until it does a backflip, or can we drop this? It's just a book. Someone annotated it. People do that." It borders on snark, but Harry manages, if only just, to keep his voice controlled, neutral in tone.

"It seems all right," Hermione allows, still staring at the book suspiciously. "I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook."

"Feels like one," Ron agrees. Harry looks at him sharply. _Feels._

It’s not. Familiar. Harry’s eyes dart about, for an uncomfortable moment, then land back on Ron, who hands the Prince’s book back over to him. He carefully puts it in his bag, among his other textbooks. 

Hermione glares at them both, swings her bag onto her shoulder, and walks off in a huff.

"Not again," Harry sighs, an intense annoyance rising up inside him as the door slams shut behind her. They’ve been getting mad at each other for really dumb shite for a little while now, petty shit like _He’s cheating!_ And she’s _being annoying!_

It kind of feels like having a sister, but one you’re always fighting with, and it’s _frustrating,_ and half the time he’s about ready to snap at her but she _cries_ when he does that and it’s just – ugh.

Annoying. If she’d just stop _nagging…_

Whatever. Harry leaves the classroom with Ron, Hermione long gone from the corridor.

“What’s wrong d’you think?” Ron says.

“I _cheated,”_ Harry rolls his eyes. “Bullshit, but. You know Hermione.”

Ron shrugs. “Yeah, well,” He says, “It is what it is?”

Harry snorts at the diplomacy, and grins at Ron, who grins back.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> don't post at 2 in the morning you ramble in the A/Ns like it's FFN circa 2010
> 
> lazy fucking title i know but like it's fitting right so i gave up it's 2 in the morning just take what i can give you loves I'll be back with something better and more substantial at some point soon maybe hopefully fingers crossed


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